A Way Out
by footshooter
Summary: Reflection on *that* line of Bruce's in the film. Set pre-Avengers, but obviously with spoilers. Possible upsetting content. Swearing.


Bruce has been on the run now for so long that he wouldn't know what day it was if he didn't have his laptop hooked up in the 'lab' area of the shack he was currently residing in.

It had been five months and he was no further forward.

He persevered, because he was convinced that there _had_ to be a way out. He _had_ to be able to find a cure. He took samples of blood daily, leaving his arms bruised and sore, blood blisters forming from improper injection technique, not because he couldn't inject properly, just because he no longer _cared_. Some would scar. He'd look like a drug addict. He wished he was a drug addict because anything would be better than what he was now.

Days slipped into weeks which slipped into months, and Bruce still was going nowhere. Occasionally he'd get angry, but that would lead to the other guy taking control. He was in the middle of nowhere, there wasn't much he could smash other than rocks and trees, and no one passed by so no one would ever notice.

Bruce occasionally had to visit shops to get food and other supplies, but he wasn't eating right because he was so focussed on his work that it wasn't at the top of his priority list and he'd only remember when his stomach growled so loudly it was painful and his head started spinning that he needed sustenance.

Nine months, and he still had nothing.

He berated himself for being so damned useless; he was supposed to be a master scientist, and yet the human body could grow and produce a child in such a long period of time and he still had _nothing_. He should have a cure by now. He shouldn't be so pathetic.

Bruce wiped away a tear and screamed into the sky. The scream turned into a roar, and the roar into a howl of pain as the monster within him clawed to be out. He staggered out into the woods, shedding his shirt as his skin turned green and his muscles pulsed and grew. And _God_ it hurt.

The Hulk took out Bruce Banner's fury on the surrounding foliage, and Bruce woke the in the early afternoon to find himself with a strange sense of calm and clarity.

He padded barefoot and naked back to the shack. He sat down in front of the laptop screen, surrounded by test tubes filled with his own blood and various chemicals. He checked his results to make sure he hadn't missed anything. And then he rechecked his checking to make sure he hadn't missed anything in the previous check.

Bruce sighed and pulled the sterile cover from over the top of a needle, attaching it to a syringe. He tied the top of his arm. He looked for a place to inject, but his veins were blackened and pockmarked. He threw the needle to the floor and it clattered against the wood before rolling to a stop against the foot of a stool.

Bruce looked out of the window; it was raining.

He closed his eyes and it registered as painful because he was so, _so_ tired. He was scared to sleep in case the other guy woke up instead of him. He was scared to let that happen in case he lost himself, and never returned; Bruce Banner fading into nothing under a green monstrosity filled with radiation and enough rage to take out cities and millions of people before his almost impenetrable skin could be touched and he could be subdued. He was scared he would see the face of a woman who he could never see again in his dreams.

The truth was, Bruce's self-imposed exile was getting him down. He was twitchy and paranoid; fearing armed raids and attacks wherever he turned. He was scared that they would deliberately make him vanish in favour of the weapon threat that the Hulk could give to the USA because, of course, that would always end badly.

He was depressed, but he didn't want to admit it to himself and he could hardly admit it to anyone else. He couldn't let anyone close. And so, nothing could be done. He had resigned himself to a miserable existence being no one. Bruce Banner and the Hulk would disappear if it meant that Bruce Banner continued to exist. He had every hope that he could find a cure.

But he couldn't. He _had_ nothing. He _understood_ nothing.

All that was left was a way out.

Bruce picked up his gun and walked out into the rain, sheets of it coming down against his skin but he couldn't _feel_ a thing. He was numbed to his core. He was calm for the fist time in a long time and he was certain that this decision was all that was left.

He sat, cross legged, in the grass and breathed in a gulp of fresh air. He thought of Betty's face because it was the best thing he could conjure.

The Hulk roared, because he knew what was coming, but he couldn't quite push through.

He ignored the other guy and kept thinking of Betty's smile. He wondered if she'd still be looking for him (of course not, she would think he was dead and really, that way was better).

Bruce Banner laughed at the irony of it all, placed the gun in his mouth, and pulled the trigger.

* * *

Bruce was groggy when he woke up and very quickly wondered if the afterlife merely consisted of darkness and thoughts. He was kind of disappointed because that's what his _life_ was and he didn't _want_ that anymore. He didn't _want_ loneliness and isolation, damn it. That's why he put the gun to his head in the first place.

Fucks sake, why did everything have to _suck_ so damned much?

Bruce was then very aware that he was chilled to the bone and very, very wet. Which was weird. But at least it didn't mean he was in hell.

He laughed, and a load rustling sounded out. Something that sounded suspiciously like birds taking off from branches nearby.

A sinking sensation hit his stomach and he cracked open one eye. It was dark, sure, but he was still in the same place he had been before…

Before he'd tried to kill himself.

Bruce sat up, trying to resupply blood flow to his very blue, very cold and very naked limbs and body. His hair fell into his face. He shivered dangerously, and wondered how long he'd been lying there like that and whether it was long enough to contract hypothermia.

He growled, suddenly, but the noise was so very him and so very unlike the other guy. He hit his palms against the wet grass and pulled some of it up to throw around him. He threw a stone against a tree and howled.

He could feel the other guy laughing in his head. He could almost see his _stupid, angry green face_ contorted into a grin and it made him so very _angry_. He felt cheated. He didn't _want_ to be here. Why did the other guy get to make that decision for him when he'd already made it? Why did _he_ get to choose?

Bruce leapt to his feet and instantly fell back down, his limbs too cold to be able to support him. He fell face first into the wet grass and started to cry.

* * *

The next time Bruce Banner woke, he was lying under a blanket in his bed. He was still damp, but not as wet as before and he was definitely a lot warmer. His legs cramped when he moved them, but they were more responsive than before.

He convinced himself that he must have blacked out from the cold and staggered back here to get warm under instinct. He pointedly ignored the extra space around where his door _used_ to be attached, and sighed at how it was propped up to block out most of the weather.

Bruce clutched the duvet around his neck as he shuddered, his body trying desperately to raise the temperature. He idly wondered whether he should get clothes to warm himself up, but decided against it. It was easier to ignore the obvious while he was lying there and not looking right at the evidence that maybe, just maybe, the other guy was more than just rage.

He couldn't start to feel anything for him, or else how would he cure himself?

His eye was caught by a flash of light from his laptop (did he leave that on?) catching something metallic on his bed stand. He reached across and picked up the small, golden bullet from where it lay beside him as an offering, almost a gift. It was cold in his hand, warming up slightly as he held it in his palm. He felt himself start to choke up and set it back down.

Bruce Banner then realised that _he_ had no right to make that choice either.

He realised he needed to work out what to do next. He decided on India, his fake passport stored in the bag under his bed. Maybe he could do some good out there as well as continue his research (since when did 'cure' become replaced with 'research' anyway?) At least that way when he did Hulk-out he wouldn't wake up hypothermic. Hopefully.

Anger bristled under his skin as he contemplated running again and just how _unfair_ it all was.

He then realised that he was angry.

He was angry, and the other guy was still.

He thought about the hole in his door, and was angrier still.

Nothing.

He contemplated his failed attempts at a cure and remained angry.

He even thought about his wrinkled skin from rain exposure and how cold he was and frankly and how _ridiculous_ he looked right now. He scoffed, indignantly, and wanted to _break_ something he was so angry.

The other guy almost _laughed_.

Bruce smiled.


End file.
